Feliz
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-finale. A "Twelve" interlude. "His own present to her hangs around her neck, rests around her ring fingers, and slumbers in his bed a mere five minutes from here by limo. His own present to her remains tucked out of sight in the pocket of his suit coat because he is a romantic and she is the only one who needs to know that."


The partygoers, the minions, the people who love and adore her mingle amongst those who envy and emulate her, and the glow spreading across her face attracts the attention of all those gathered in the room. The way she laughs, the way her lips lift into a smile sways everyone assembled into following her lead as they pass along their felicitations over her birth and their best wishes for her next year and add their presents to the growing pile by the elevator. Shiny wrappings and perfectly tied bows creating a pyramid of adoration in testament to her reign over the Upper East Side despite the fact that she is no longer their teenage queen, despite the fact that this is not the birthday party of a child because no one dares show up without a token of their affection.

His own present to her hangs around her neck, rests around her ring fingers, and slumbers in his bed a mere five minutes from here by limo. His own present to her remains tucked out of sight in the pocket of his suit coat because he is a romantic and she is the only one who needs to know. The music from the live band in the corner of the room continues to play softly in the background as her stepfather passes a glass of scotch into his son-in-law's hand, as he raises up his own glass in silent cheers to the young woman they have assembled here tonight to celebrate.

"The place looks great. Thank you for hosting tonight."

"It was all Eleanor," her stepfather replies as his eyes dart across the room in search of his beloved wife. He spies her standing amongst her former employees – the ones who left the company rather than relocate back to Manhattan and changed their minds after _B for Waldorf_ took the fashion world by storm – and he pauses for a moment to make sure she is not berating them for questioning her judgment before continuing on his conversation. "I think she enjoyed the opportunity to be in charge of something now that Blair has taken over Waldorf Designs, and, besides, you know how much Waldorf women enjoy their party themes."

He smiles at Cyrus' words because the debate over the party theme for her birthday party began less than an hour after the end of the Empire's annual Halloween party – Dante's Inferno making way for a night in Paris and as many peonies as possible before the Waldorf penthouse would begin to resemble the Waldorf greenhouse. Hors d'oeuvres emulated from her favorite restaurants in Paris circulate the room on silver trays while miniature replicas of the Eiffel Tower are banished from the party because no self-respecting Parisian actually likes that blot of twisted iron that has come to stand as the cultural icon of their beloved city.

The laughter in his eyes catches the laughter in her own distracting his attention from that of his father-in-law in favor of his wife, and the shorter man twists to look over his shoulder to see what his son-in-law is so enamored with, to look over his shoulder at his own wife and share a smile over how wonderful Blair – the daughter she shared with him and he now calls his own – is. To share a look so long that Cyrus fails to notice the way his son-in-law has stepped away from their small circle until Chuck has reached the musicians assembled in the corner of the apartment, until he has passed along his request and stepped across the room towards his wife, until Cyrus' daughter has broken from her group and accepted her husband's outstretched hand so that he may drag her into the center of the room.

"Chuck, wha—"

Her question is cut off as he turns to face her and encircles his hands around her waist, as the music morphs from soft sonatas to acoustic rock. The change attracts the attention of the partygoers, who turn on their heels and watch the birthday girl and her husband behind glasses of alcohol held just in front of their faces. People whose eyes are glazed over thanks to Prosaic and Ativan, thanks to the pharmaceutical uppers and downers offered to them on doctor script pads like menus for a feast.

"Shut up and dance with me," he replies because he does not care that no one else is dancing, because he wants to hold his wife in his arms and know that this dance can and will go on every night for the rest of their lives. And she relents with a smile, with arms that snake around his neck only to fall trailing her fingers against his neck in a teasing gesture.

Those closest to them shrug their shoulders and follow their lead – her mother and stepfather, her best friend and boyfriend from Brooklyn, his mother and her ex-husband, his best friend and her lead designer – holding hands and adjourning together to the makeshift dance floor he has created in the middle of the Waldorf penthouse. But the attention of the Upper East Side forgotten as the Queen and her king enjoy a moment just between the two of them, as the Queen revels in the attention of the one she has chosen to reign over them beside her.

Her face hovers mere inches from his, and his eyes and smile reflect the happiness found across her features. Fingers trail up her arm and squeeze her hipbone through the fabric of her dress sending a feverish chill down her skin as the music serving as their guide shifts to the chorus of a song they know well. A reminder of how they spent her next to last night as a sixteen-year-old and repeated again as on her next to last night as a twenty-two-year-old causing her skin to flush in remembrance.

"Chuck," she groans through gritted teeth, and his solution to her frustration is to pull her closer to him, to trap the heat between them and whisper the words of the song being played into her ear.

"I'll hold onto this moment, you know."

And normally she'd chastise him by pinching her fingers around his skin with reminders that some things are sacred, that then events of last night are not to mentioned in the middle of her birthday party, but his head pulls away from hers so they are back to being mere inches apart staring into each other's eyes and the cool metal of his ring trails against her skin until the moments is forgotten. Until all the moments of her twenty-second year reigning over the Upper East Side – the expressed confidence in her by her mother, the success of her _B for Waldorf_ pop-up shop, the proposal to her on bended knee, the wedding in Central Park, the acclamation after fashion week, the complete reparation of her relationship with Serena, the birth of the prince of the Upper East Side – come rushing to the forefront of her mind and chases out all the other thoughts in her head.

"Twenty-two was a good year, wasn't it?"

Her musing question is met not with a reply but rather with the slight nod of his head, with the way he continues to sway her across the makeshift dance floor with eyes that never leave her gaze. The man who has been all in for so many years, who has carried her during all the frustration and pain of the last year simply unwilling to break the moment occurring in front of his eyes even as his fingers release their grip around her hip and move to pull his present to her from his coat pocket. An action she misses because she is too busy musing over what being twenty-three might hold for her – continued success with Waldorf Designs, shopping trips and viewings of _Tiffany's_ with her best friend, a little boy who will say 'mama' before he says 'dada', a husband who continues to—

The cool touch of the bracelet around her arm causes her to drop her gaze from his to where his fingers are showing off their skills at unclasping with one hand in reverse fashion. To where the third most beautiful piece of jewelry she has ever seen is nestled against her skin – a bracelet of understated elegance yet still dripping with wealth and affection that features a single symbol speaking to how their lives will always intersect and lead them back to each other, how infinite and far more expansive his love is for her than can be contained in a single heart pin.

"The infinity sign," she breathes out in surprise before her eyes dart back up to look at his, before his fingers curl back around her hips and instruct her to continue dancing.

And no words pass between them – the magnitude of his jewel-encrusted statement taking up all the space words would normally fill – as the clock ticks closer and closer to the day proclaimed throughout their realm to be all about her. The song finishing just as the seconds between today and tomorrow melt away, just as he leans forward to press his lips against hers and fulfill the promise another man could not keep that is now only his to make for the rest of their lives.

"Happy birthday, Blair. I hope twenty-three is just as wonderful to you as twenty-two was."

"It will be," she promises. "I'm surrounded by the people who love me, including my wonderful husband."

She trails off with her words because her husband has released her and stepped aside not to reveal the cake or the pile of presents but to reveal the presence of the one person who loves her that had been missing from the party. The tiny prince set to inherit the throne currently occupied by his mother and dressed in a miniature bowtie cut from the same fabric of her dress is held in the arms of his mother's beloved maid, and Dorota passes him into her embrace with her own wishes for Blair to have a happy birthday.

"I know he should be sleeping," her husband replies when he spies the questions in her eyes. "But Dorota said he hasn't settled down at all tonight. Something about refusing to miss a party he wasn't invited to."

"He is his father's son," she states with a roll of her eyes as she cradles the little boy in her arms, as she traces her hand over the downy soft hair covering his head.

"Which means one dance and he'll be ready to leave and find a bed," Chuck replies with a smirk and small laugh.

She glares at him, at the way he injects these innuendos into simple moments, but the glare melts off her face as Henry kicks his feet and arms as though he is dancing in her arms when the band strikes up another tune. And she begins to sway back and forth in a dance with her little boy, in a dance her husband joins in by pressing his hand against her back and his body against her side until it is just the three of them celebrating the dawn of her twenty-third birthday.


End file.
